snow-laden field on a foggy midday by sachalkhan, literature
Literature
snow-laden field on a foggy midday
1.
When you reared your head I fell all across England,
past the grit haired grandmothers humming horticulture, ripples in the leather-skin weather of their faces,
past the ember specked fireplaces in the windows of an ash haven: London, and the commuters that hang like rain in its taxicab fumes; sewage pipes groan under the trains and hairspray.
I fall past this thinking
only of your grass blade hair
(how it all points up at me
in breathless photosynthesis),
thinking of you only.
2.
I would like the way I fall over you,
thick thighed lady with a bottle of booze
bubbling like your cheeks under your hair,
I would like your lips hanging li
i was pulled by an office-light moon
to a lone street, couple of cars
sailing on the slimy chalk road,
there's a CitySprint van by a red brick wall,
fear trickling down the trees
and i'm a slick street thug mugging all it can haul
i was called to a bridge by a burning frost
fervent as it was obscene,
like a broadsword enthralled
in the chest of a working class Paul,
poor man mauled and i'm his savings
sprawled across the railway like rain
i was drunk by the pub, fell apart
like foam at a pint glass rim,
hanging by the whim of a lady
with a body of bed and a radiator warmth
spilling like coffee's scent
and i'm a street lamp
d
i.
the rain wrapped impatience around your roof,
bored through the wood like a thousand million termites
(or one you-sized termite, blind, breathless)
and seeped from the cold clockwork like battery acid.
ii.
you lived in a widow's closet -
a house swarmed with antiques
that collapsed in their own gravity
and combusted -
and then you lived in widow's charcoal.
iii.
"galaxies are either lovers or termites," she mused.
(earlier, her fingernails bored into my back
Hubble's thousand million stars, all drops of acid
branding my spine.)
"they are drawn to each other for years
and in an instant, once together,
eat themselves alive.
she screams like a static alarm clock,
her thoughts awash with white noise
and her good luck caked
with a fingerprint of birdshit.
(but i am tuned out, unplugged,
by the window, hoping to hear a jingle
catch on her cracking voice.)
it's too cold here. every day the celsius nips at my skin,
paints it blue as a negative digit, reduces "movement" to nil
there is a constant snow on my shoulders
that evicts the warmth in my ears,
sets nearby follicles in straight salute
like spiked german helmets
in the "great" war between a sunlight massage
and my frosty breath
"My wife grew up in a mining family," he said this morning
after a sunrise's worth of silent thinking. "Solitary,
no hobbies: no dancing, no singing, no drawing - she drew
her bounds around herself
from the store room with the barred windows,
the wine cellar where nobody goes
to the terrace, dirty marble juxtaposed
with shiny gifts from the old widows
next door, all pristine."
his lips sink, seal again
and allow a sunrise of silence
she says Imagine
that god is the field beneath us,
and the trees are his angels -
(i pray to them, you know,
wrap myself around the bark like vines,
each of my thousand fingers curls to catch each twig.
but on bad days i am poison ivy
and my fingernails are nettles,
my long torso is tied in knots and clumps
like my hung over hair.)
- or Suppose
that love is a recluse and a painter,
and hate is his morbid self critic -
(i'm a painter too, you know,
my brush screeches up at me
as if to say breathe me, breathe me!
but on bad days i am a smoker
whose lungs wither like untended plants,
my tongue is tied in knots and clumps
that
when you tore the ten thousand foot sky
leapfrogging cloud to cloud
a breast stroke through the blue
dousing the nearby stars
so the sun could rise anew
snow-laden field on a foggy midday by sachalkhan, literature
Literature
snow-laden field on a foggy midday
1.
When you reared your head I fell all across England,
past the grit haired grandmothers humming horticulture, ripples in the leather-skin weather of their faces,
past the ember specked fireplaces in the windows of an ash haven: London, and the commuters that hang like rain in its taxicab fumes; sewage pipes groan under the trains and hairspray.
I fall past this thinking
only of your grass blade hair
(how it all points up at me
in breathless photosynthesis),
thinking of you only.
2.
I would like the way I fall over you,
thick thighed lady with a bottle of booze
bubbling like your cheeks under your hair,
I would like your lips hanging li
He wished for curtains,
so that he could swing them closed
like eyelids with tassel lashes,
to keep the moonlight from
invading his sleep-seduced body.
(Crouched, head buried into knees,
hands in weakened prayer.)
They would frame the sunlit glass,
(when the sun awoke, arms outstretched,
translucent fingers that stroked clouds)
with the silhouette of the city,
faint and far, peering into the room,
and the hand-print of a lover smudged into the color.
If the curtains parted, he would glance down,
and see the scratches the ladder left on the windowsill.
Instead the tassels were made of rusted iron,
and the glass was tinted black.
swimming, not a strength by jaani-androphile, literature
Literature
swimming, not a strength
would he pull a maiden's hands,
white, adorned with veins and cooling blood
from swamps and running rivers
had he been Poseidon's son?
perhaps his grip would run through her fingers
and escape like eels into her lungs,
coiling like wet string dipped into mucus,
and sleeping to the breaths, which ran faster than Atlanta,
firm breasted, and golden-haired
tangled in a rose-bed Poseidon laid to grow
absorbing sunshine curls
of a maiden plunged below.
on the roof
simpering with
the pigeons
i throw
sheen after sheen
from buckets of paint;
you do all
the work
getting
in the
way.
awnings
spattered
like lips
with the color
of kisses
shiver
and move.
and listen
to this:
the birds
open their mouths
in the rain
spread one wing
then another
and lean out
and over--
the river
opens
onto salt
as the moon
blooms
like a coin
in a fist;
lovers
part lips
while
friends
part ways.
the bartender
peels a lime;
the doorman
pulls at the door
while the waitress
clears the table.
i open
a window,
you open
your eyes:
work
is making space.
here and
i have
"Baby."
That's what he would call me: Baby.
"Baby," he'd call in his don't-wake-the-living voice.
(The knob turns and the door creeps open, the scent of him drowns the room. I stare into the splashes of darkness behind my eyelids and stay still – he has the eyes of Medusa, he is always watching, he has the eyes of Medusa, he is always – "Good girl," he coos.)
"Baby," he would moan, crushing my bony wrists beneath his forearm.
(Razor blades tear into my abdomen, or maybe it's my head. My screams are muffled against his chest, until I no longer bother to scream.)
"Baby," he'd say, his arms like prison bars, keeping me in Hell.
(Tears spi
i.
the rain wrapped impatience around your roof,
bored through the wood like a thousand million termites
(or one you-sized termite, blind, breathless)
and seeped from the cold clockwork like battery acid.
ii.
you lived in a widow's closet -
a house swarmed with antiques
that collapsed in their own gravity
and combusted -
and then you lived in widow's charcoal.
iii.
"galaxies are either lovers or termites," she mused.
(earlier, her fingernails bored into my back
Hubble's thousand million stars, all drops of acid
branding my spine.)
"they are drawn to each other for years
and in an instant, once together,
eat themselves alive.
i've been deleting stuff i post on deviantart, mostly because i don't want it here(or anywhere)
the majority of my stuff will remain here but i'm going to be very selective about what is put up
(and consequently i'll be very 'inactive' ho ho as if i haven't been that already
dA is kind of boring and submitting to tons of groups is very tiresome)
so until next time